


Gallifrey Records

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World-famous rock legend the Doctor invites Rose Tyler, up-and-coming pop star, to be the opening act on his tenth world tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
Rose wasn’t initially sure what to make of the offer.  
  
Everybody knew the Doctor, had listened to his music at some point in their lives, tucked up in their bedrooms and poring over the lyrics insert. Everybody had a favorite album, too. They were never titled, only distinguishable by what he was wearing on the cover.  
  
Her mum’s friends always talked about the Scarf Album or the Cricket Album, but Rose liked his newer stuff, the Leather Album and the Suit Album, even the Cravat Album (though she’d gotten into that one out of order).  
  
So when he’d called her – and  _her_  – not her mum, actually called Rose, and invited her to be the opening act for his newest tour, it was kind of a heavy moment.  
  
“I don’t deal with mums and I don’t deal with managers, and I certainly don’t deal with mum-managers,” he said. “You decide if you’d like to come along.”  
  
Rose remembered the long silence down the line before he’d finally said, “I will say, I’d love you to come,” and then he’d hung up.  
  
The next day he’d called again, asking one last time, and she’d not hesitated to sign on.  
  
She’d spent the weeks leading up to the start of the tour a nervous wreck. The Doctor was famous for making people’s careers, or saving them when they were in trouble, but a single word from him could kill an artist dead in the water. Harriet Jones’ latest album had barely even charted, after he’d implied she was relying a little too heavy on the auto-tune.  
  
Rose had been on tour plenty of times — playing sold-out clubs and theaters — but this was a new league of venue: arenas. As much as Jackie raged about the Doctor’s “no mothers on the road” rule, she finally agreed, for the sake of Rose’s career.  
  
She was old enough to handle things on her own without her mum, manager or not. By  _things_ , her mum didn’t mean  _percentage of the take_  or  _proper billing on the posters._  The Doctor had a history of bringing young women on the road with him — although there hadn’t ever been any proof of anything untoward happening behind-the-scenes. The gossip rags were rife with unsubstantiated rumors about the Doctor’s “Companions” (nicknamed as though they were a troupe of backup singers), but no one had ever scored a single incriminating photo.  
  
Rose figured that if things got out of hand, well … her mum was only a phone call away.  
  
She didn’t actually meet the Doctor in person until they were right in the thick of it, at the kickoff performance at Wembley stadium. Five minutes before she was due to be onstage, he knocked at her dressing room door. Without waiting for an answer, he came in, decked out in his trademark pinstripes and Chucks, his hair a glorious mess of spikes. He was taller and skinnier in person than she’d expected, and he just stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking back onto his heels and surveying her as though she was a particularly interesting specimen of something … alien.  
  
After a minute of this, with Rose watching the clock tick by on the wall behind his head, so as not to stare directly at the man whose music had gotten her through both being broken up with by Jimmy, and breaking up with Mickey, he finally spoke.  
  
“You bring that with you,” he glanced to the trusty pink guitar resting in its stand to her left. “But you don’t play it on stage. Why’s that? Not any good? No, couldn’t be that, you seem like the type to be the best at whatever you do. I should know, I only take the best.”  
  
The tone of his voice, the light ramble he slipped into, put her at ease and she instantly wanted to answer with the truth.  
  
“Oh, product of my environment, I guess. They wanted a pop star, I wanted to be Joan Jett,” she gestured to her own trademark – a sparkled dress, “You can tell who won.”  
  
The Doctor focused on her, locking their eyes, and Rose felt like she was seeing the history of music flash by, a million songs, anguished ballads and screaming punk, a thousand radio hits.  
  
“Well, I want the real Rose Tyler, not some label’s packaged product. When you finish your set, put on whatever you’d like and wait at the side of the stage during mine. Bring your guitar.”  
  
She wanted to protest, she had never actually played it in front of anyone, hours at home, alone, yes, but on stage it was usually her, her voice, and whatever flash effects they put behind her.  
  
Before she could get the words out, she heard the two minute call and the Doctor ducked out the door.  
  
Rose had seen concerts at Wembley over the years, Muse and Madonna and Green Day, so she knew the lay of the land. She’d walked onstage for her sound check a few hours ago, when the seats were empty and the lights were going up. But stepping out from behind the curtains, standing in front of the sea of faces and the roar of cheers pounding the stage like waves beating the shore, took her breath. She was in over her head and drowning, incapable of calling for help, face fixed into a rictus of a smile and dress sparkling like a disco ball. Then the drums kicked in, steady and familiar, and her knees unlocked.  
  
“Hello, London!” She strutted forward, managed not to fall into the crowd, waved hello, and they cheered louder.  
  
 _I only take the best._  
 _Damn right he does,_  Rose thought. Because once the music started, she was a goddess – she held power over the audience, the power of love and emotion, of life and death.  
  
Unlike some headlining divas in the music world, the Doctor had given her free rein in choosing her set list. She sang her current hit first, of course; but after that came the songs she’d written herself, the ones the label liked to put on the b-side because they made her appear “authentic.”  
  
Halfway through the last song she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, standing just offstage, watching her with a grin on his face. Not the smile he gave in his music videos or concerts or interviews, but a small twist of his lips, the expression of a man delighted by something unexpected.  
  
It was a good look on him, that grin.  
  
It was even better that she’d put it there.  
  
When she finished that song, and the lights had dimmed, the road crew trotting out to arrange things for the Doctor’s set, she all but ran back to her dressing room.  
  
 _Should she change?_    
  
There weren’t very many people who saw her without the armor of something shiny, and walking on stage like that seemed almost unimaginable. Something in her wanted the Doctor to see it first, alone.   
  
Besides, she wanted to show the world, or at least Wembley stadium, that the Rose Tyler they knew could do this. If the label saw the audience responding to her, in wardrobe, with a guitar, maybe they’d let her bring it out once in a while.   
  
Trying to play in jeans and t-shirts could come after that.   
  
That decided, she grabbed her guitar, and forced herself to walk slowly back to the offstage area, fielding congratulations from some of the crew milling about the halls.   
  
From her spot in the wings, she watched the Doctor’s set, enjoying the way he paced the stage with his guitar in between breaks from singing. It wasn’t dancing by any stretch, more like he was trying to get his thoughts in order before the next verse, his fingers on the instrument almost second nature.  
  
And then suddenly the music had stopped and he was announcing a special guest, one, he said, who might look familiar, from, ohhhhh, 45 minutes ago. She had only a moment to think about how much she loved the conversational way he addressed the audience, before a crew member was plucking her guitar from her hand and rushing to plug it in.   
  
Rose followed him out, watching the Doctor’s face in the bright lights as she went.  
  
She ought to have felt panic — they hadn’t rehearsed anything together, and she was familiar with his songs enough to wing it,  _maybe,_  but there simply wasn’t a plan. For Rose, everything had  _always_  been planned: costume changes to match the mood of each song, pyrotechnics, back-up dancers, every aspect of the show predictable and easy to manage.  
  
So far, the Doctor had been anything but predictable, and Rose had the distinct impression that trying to manage him would be a nightmare.  
  
He smiled as she walked across the stage, arm extended in welcome, and the crowd roared. She grinned back, tongue between her teeth ( _oh he noticed that, his gaze flickering to her mouth for a split second_ ). She waved at the audience and slung her pink guitar across her body; wearing it out here, in front of all these people, was exhilarating and terrifying and exactly like going down the steep drop on a roller coaster.  
  
In the glare of the stage lights, every last detail of the Doctor’s face was illuminated — the angles of his cheekbones, the constellation of freckles across his skin, and the mischievous gleam in his bright brown eyes.  
  
“Rose Tyler, are you ready?” he mouthed at her, so the mic wouldn’t pick up his words.  
  
She nodded. “Yeah.”  
  
The Doctor turned to the audience, bouncing on his toes in excitement, full of manic energy, and shouted at them, “Are you ready?”  
  
The response was deafening. He winked at her and his fingers moved over the strings of his guitar. After the fourth chord, she was playing right along with him, and when he belted out the first lyric she came in right on cue: “Hit me with your rhythm stick; Hit me! Hit me! Je t’adore, ich liebe dich; Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!”  
  
He couldn’t have known. There’s  _no way_  the Doctor could’ve known about this song, and the way her father used to sing it to her at night, before his car accident. This song, and the way it was worn into her bones like grooves on a record.  
  
After that, it was the clichéd blur she said she’d never describe being on stage as, but there it was. There was a sense of home, of something familiar, up there, on the worn floorboards, and it wasn’t all in the memory of her dad.   
  
The Doctor had a manic, happy look on his face ( _to match her own, she was sure_ ) by the time they’d finished the song. She pulled him into a tight hug on impulse, the crowd roaring louder and a thousand camera flashes going off before she released him, not missing the way he definitely hugged her back.  
  
The photos would be on every music blog from London to Cleveland by morning, but she didn’t care. If the in-ear monitor was anything to go by, it had been an amazing performance – hopefully they’d mention that, too.   
  
She walked off-stage with the Doctor and it was only when they reached a tough-looking woman in a business suit that she realized they were holding hands. Had she done that?  _Oh, god._  She let go of the Doctor’s hand as casually as she could.  
  
“You two were brilliant! The press will go bonkers for that!” The woman said, her ginger hair shining in the backstage lights. She turned to Rose, “I’m Donna Noble, I manage Rock Boy over here.”  
  
Rose stuck out her hand, realizing too late it was probably sweaty from playing (and holding the Doctor’s), but Donna shook it and didn’t comment, “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Noble,” Rose said.  
  
” _Ms._  Noble, I like this one! Please call me Donna though,” she turned to the Doctor, “And you! No more than three encores! We load out tonight, not in the morning.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” the Doctor said, ruffling his own unruly hair before he snapped to mock attention and directed a salute at her.  
  
“Oi, don’t sass me, Rock Boy.” The crowd was screaming; it sounded like an impending riot. “Get out there and give them that encore, before they tear the house down!”  
  
He was about to turn away, but Rose grabbed his hand —  _why did she have this impulse to hold onto him?_  — and blurted out, “You were brilliant, too!”  
  
“Oh, me? I’m always brilliant,” he replied, and coming from his beaming face it wasn’t so much conceit as it was statement of fact; not something he was proud of, simply a truth he knew about himself. His long fingers squeezed hers and he was gone, bouncing back onstage as the crowd roared even louder.  
  
“C’mon, I’ll show you were they park the buses. This place is a maze, and I don’t have any extra troops to send a search party if you get lost.”  
  
Rose had nearly forgotten Donna was there.  
  
The two women fell into easy conversation as Donna guided her through the depths of the stadium to the loading bay. It was packed with lorries, some already being loaded with Rose’s own stage equipment, some waiting for the Doctor’s. In the midst of everything stood two tour buses. Rose’s was exactly as her mother had stipulated in her contract: a hulking thing, black and gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a spaceship. The Doctor’s battered blue bus looked small beside it, chipped paint and balding tires attesting to years on the road. Rose realized he must love this bus — there was no other reason someone with his resources would’ve kept such an ancient thing.  
  
Donna gave her a hug before excusing herself to see to all the other details of wrapping up the evening’s show. Rose took her time cleaning up, showering and changing into a tank top and pajama pants. She’d just settled in with a romance novel when there was a knock at her door.   
  
Rose checked herself in the mirror next to the dresser, poking at her cheeks to get some color into them, before opening the door. What would she say to him? Should she have stayed for his encores? No, Donna had been the one to lead her away – surely she would know if the Doctor would get fussy that she left.  
  
She took a deep breath just as another knock came and she opened the door with a grin.  
  
It was not the Doctor.  
  
Her smile faltered as a woman about her own height and build stood in the entryway. “Hi, I’m Martha Jones, tour physician.”  
  
Quickly recovering, Rose shook her hand. “A doctor for the Doctor?”  
  
“Something like that,” Martha laughed. “A doctor for you, too. I just need to do a quick physical, legal reasons for the label and all that. Should’ve done it before the show tonight, but the Doctor warned everyone off visiting you – I think he wanted to stop by himself first.”  
  
Martha’s tone implied that it could have been a question, but Rose wanted to keep that visit for herself a little longer – until she had to do some interview about the tour and how the Doctor was treating her, at least.  
  
Rose nodded and Martha continued on.  
  
“Anyway, just some quick checks.” She pulled a stethoscope from a small bag she was carrying.  
  
Martha’s bedside manner was impeccable, putting Rose at ease with questions about her favorite bands and her mum as she checked her blood pressure and looked in her ears. But Rose wanted more information on the Doctor from this inside source.  
  
“Is there a lot of illness on your tours?” Rose said.  
  
“Oh, no, not much at all,” Martha said. “But the executives keep me around just in case. In fact, I think the Doctor insists on it. And someone’s got to stop him from eating only bananas and chips all time.”  
  
Rose laughed, guilty. “I have a bit of a weakness for chips, too.”  
  
Martha put the medical equipment back in her bag. “Oh, you two will get on like a house on fire then. I bet he’ll stop by soon, he always likes to make sure the other acts want to continue after the first show. Don’t mention the chips unless you want to find yourself eating some at,”she checked her watch, “Half past 11.”  
  
And with that, Martha left, leaving the door open behind her.  
  
Rose plopped down on the small sofa with a sigh and reached for her novel again, but before she could even open the cover, the Doctor popped his head inside the door. His hair was wet, which meant he’d cleaned up, but for some bizarre reason he was in a fresh pair of pinstriped trousers and shirtsleeves — still in costume. He glanced at the plush bus, then surveyed her from head to toe, and arched his eyebrows at her choice of novel ( _oh god, she was reading_  The Virile Viking _again, why hadn’t she packed War and Peace or something?_ ).  
  
“Well, come on then. We’ve got to be in Conventry by morning, we’re doing an interview on the local morning show, and Donna’s got the buses leaving in two minutes. Are you going to stay here?”  
  
And with that he popped right back out again, strutting away to his ancient blue bus.  
  
 _Don’t let things get out of hand, Rose Tyler!_  her mother’s voice crowed in the back of her head.  
  
“Oh, stuff it,” she retorted aloud, tossing  _The Virile Viking_  across the room and following the Doctor to his bus.  
  
It was bigger than it looked from the outside, strewn with the evidence of bachelor living, everything inside decidedly masculine. No hint of any other “companions” anywhere, not that she could see; either it didn’t exist, or he’d hidden it away quite well.  
  
“I’m starving,” he said, depositing a large container of chips into her hands. “Good old Donna, she knows what I need. Always has a basket of these waiting for me after the kickoff show. She was the one who first showed me your performance tape, y’know. The one from that club in Soho — what’s it called? — the Shadow Proclamation! That’s the one!” He plucked a few chips out of her lap and stuffed them into his mouth.  
  
“Oh, no. Yeah. The gig where the sound equipment malfunctioned,” Rose said, rolling her eyes following his lead, stuffing chips into her mouth.  
  
“You’re really brilliant unplugged, you are,” he said, waggling his eyebrows again, and she giggled. “You ought to sing like that more often.”  
  
Rose finished chewing, intending to thank him for the compliment, but what came out instead was, “Oh, these are gorgeous!”  
  
The Doctor laughed and nodded, snagging a few more from her pile with a wink. Eating chips like this all the time, how the hell did he stay so skinny? The label had her on an exercise regimen that included a ton of treadmill running, but somehow she couldn’t imagine the Doctor doing the same, at least not on a machine.  
  
He did have those long, thin legs that would be perfect for running though, and the way his trousers – she needed to focus, he was staring at her.  
  
“Remind me to thank Donna then; singing unplugged is great, when I can get away with it. Usually takes an act of nature, or electrical malfunction.”  
  
The Doctor smiled. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about that. I got a first in electrical malfunction, by way of jiggery pokery.” He leaned forward in his seat, arm stretching toward the bus’ small fridge. He opened it and took out two bottles of Vitex and handed one to her.  
  
“Tour sponsor,” he said with a shrug.  
  
Rose eyed the bottle before opening it. “My dad always thought this would be a great idea – a health drink that tasted good, too.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? What happened? Because it looks like someone beat him to it,” the Doctor said, taking a swig from his bottle. “Although whether this actually tastes good is a matter for debate.”  
  
Rose dropped her eyes to the floor, focusing on the Doctor’s scuffed trainers. It always made people feel awkward when she told them about her dad, like they didn’t know how to respond.  
  
“He – he died. Car accident, when I was little.”  
  
The Doctor put a hand on her knee, light enough and low enough to be proper.  
  
“I’m so sorry. I should have – I try not to get too much each information on the other acts before the tour starts. Makes the discovering much more fun. I should’ve known about this though.”  
  
Rose started at his hand on her knee, the way he was leaning into her across the small built-in bench.  
  
“It’s all right, I don’t really even talk about it interviews. It’s weird though, that song tonight, Ian Dury, he used to sing that with me before he died. What made you choose it?”  
  
Before he could reply, the bus lurched into motion, throwing them both to one side of the bench. The Doctor’s hand, which had been so properly placed, slipped upward. Rose let out a very undignified squeal, the Doctor stuttered apologies as he scrambled backward, and the chips went flying onto the floor.  
He was on his knees in a flash, scooping bits of fried potato back into the basket. “Ten second rule!”  
  
She eyed the speckled chips as he climbed back onto the bench next to her and shook her head. “More for me,” he said with a shrug, stuffing a few in his mouth. One bite in, he spat them back out into the basket, making a noise like a five-year-old rejecting broccoli. “Bleh! I think I picked up more than just the potatoes there.”  
  
She couldn’t help it — she was giggling again.  
  
“Hmm, that’s enough of that,” he said, tossing the basket onto the nearby kitchenette table. “Where was I? Oh yes! Ian Dury.” The bus had pulled out of the stadium and they were well into the streets of London now; it was darker here, the city lights floating outside the bus window like stars, the hum of the bus engine familiar and comforting. “It’s a classic, that song, one of my favorites. And there’s a video — the internet, that cesspool of moments we wish the public would just forget about — anyway, a video of you in a coffee shop, you were just starting out and you sang that song during open mic night.”  
  
Several thoughts struck Rose all at once, but she only managed to say the first one that popped into her head: “You were googling videos of me on the internet?”  
  
“Well-l-l-l, not exactly.” He looked more than a bit mortified, tugging at his ear and latching his gaze onto the ceiling. “My drummer, Adam, he kind of has a thing for you, and I just happened to be walking by when Adam was —”  
  
Rose waved her hand, cutting him off — although she did like seeing him embarrassed. This wasn’t the Doctor, Rock God; he was a regular bloke, blushing and adorable. “I haven’t sung it in ages. I’m glad you picked it.”  
  
He beamed. “So you’re on-board with all this, then?” he asked, waving vaguely at their surroundings.  
  
Rose looked at the bus, at the open door to the bedroom at one end, and tried not to squeak. “Pardon?”  
  
“The tour! Not ready to jump ship yet, I hope? Because the duet bit in the middle of my set —  _perfect._  I’d like to make it a regular thing, every single stop!”  
  
Rose rushed to agree: “That sounds perfect! I think it’ll help me make a case with the the label for a little more freedom.”  
  
The Doctor looked hurt and she charged on to correct her mistake, “I mean, that’s second though, to singing with you.”  
  
His grin made the chips she had managed to eat stand up and march around in her stomach.  
  
“We can stick to covers for now,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get into a groove in a few stops, and can try writing something together.”  
  
Rose’s head swam. “Oh, oh, yes, oh wow.”  
  
The Doctor seemed not to notice her stumbling. “But for now Rose Tyler, we have to sleep! Well, you do. Don’t need much, me. You can take the bed, I’ll camp out here.”  
  
Before she could protest, he was ushering her toward the back of the bus and the tiny bunk, no door to speak of sectioning it from the rest of the space.  
  
Her head met the pilllow just as her adrenaline crashed and she cocooned herself into the sheets, surrounded by the smell of something spicy and clean and Doctor. She was just pondering what it could be – cologne, aftershave, soap – when she dropped off to sleep.  
  
The next morning, she was jarred from sleep by the sound of the radio:  
 _This is Hark the Shark with your morning drive and coming up in the 8 o’clock hour, we’ll have the Doctor and Rose Tyler, stars of the newest arena tour out of the Gallifrey Records label!_  
  
8 o’clock! And the bus wasn’t moving. Oh god, she had to get ready.  
  
“Doctor!” Rose’s voice echoed off the small interior of the bus and the Doctor bolted upright from where he was lying on the bench, apparently listening to the radio.  
  
“What, what is it?!”  
  
“What time is it? I can’t go to the studio looking like this!”  
  
The Doctor looked her up and down and Rose blushed. “Aw, you’d be fine. Jack would probably say something about seeing you the morning after without a night before, though.”  
  
Rose groped around at the edge of her bed for her shoes – when had she taken those off?  
  
“Jack?” she said, distracted.  
  
“Hark the Shark, of course! Helped him get his start in the business, he’s always a stop for press when I tour.”  
  
“Oh, sure, right. Listen, I’ll meet you in the studio.” She brushed by him on the way out of the bus, careful not to aim her morning breath anywhere near him.   
  
Donna had everything planned out to the second, from ushering them through the crowd of press at the front door of the radio station ( _Rose didn’t mean to huddle against his side, the camera flashes were disorienting, that was all_ ) to exactly how long the Doctor was allowed to hug Jack hello, both men slapping each other on the back with the enthusiasm of long-absent childhood friends.  
  
Hark the Shark was quite nice to look at, Rose decided as he winked at her over the Doctor’s shoulder.  
  
“Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this moment — Rose Tyler herself, pop goddess!” Jack said when Donna pried him apart from the Doctor. “Hello, gorgeous!” He moved closer with a casual grace, almost like dancing, his hand out for a shake.  
  
Rose took his hand and just like that she was folded into his arms, twisted around and dipped backward — they were dancing. She laughed delightedly and his megawatt grin was her reward.  
  
“Oi, Jaaaaack! Ease off, she’s not used to your kind,” the Doctor snapped, not bothering to hide his exasperation.  
  
“What d’ya mean,  _my kind_? American?” he retorted. “I know for a fact Rose has toured the States, she’s had a gander at American beefcake before.”  
  
“All right, boys, get hold of yourselves,” Donna interrupted, extracting Rose from Jack’s arms. She was grateful; managing that on her own might’ve been a bit of trouble. Donna pointed at a chair, and Rose sat down. The Doctor sat beside her, and Jack across the table, next to his sound board, and before she knew it there was a red light and they were on-air.  
  
Their segment was supposed to be a quick promo, a few questions from callers, but the way the conversation went, they might as well have been sitting in a pub chatting over pints. Forty-five minutes later, Jack charmed Donna into the soundbooth, only there weren’t enough microphones to go around, and so she had to share with Jack. It didn’t escape Rose’s attention that Jack’s arm was across the back of Donna’s chair, his fingers playing with her hair, the entire time.  
  
It didn’t escape Donna’s attention, either, and she started to stutter a bit as they bantered on-air.  
  
The Doctor grabbed Rose’s hand under the table and for a split-second she was breathless, wondering what on earth to make of  _that_ , except he tugged on her fingers and shot her conspiratorial looks, winking at Jack, and before Hark the Shark’s show was over, Donna was sitting in Jack’s lap.  
  
The entire morning was, Rose decided, the best she’d had in months.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The gig wasn’t until 9 that night, with an early morning load out tomorrow, which meant an overnight stay in what was probably going to be some posh resort.  
  
Soundcheck was at 5 p.m. and a whole day in Coventry stretched out before them. Donna was taking one car to check-in at the hotel, and then heading to the venue for the business side of things.  
  
With strict instructions to their driver – a friendly-looking old man the Doctor had called Wilf – to make sure they were at the arena on time, Donna left the two of them, shouting, “Behave!” out the open car window as she left. Rose was grateful for the relative privacy of the station’s back entrance or the press would have a field day with her mothering.  
  
“Well, Rose Tyler, whatever shall we do with ourselves?” He leaned on the hood of the car, the fabric of his trousers vibrating as it idled. She couldn’t see Wilf from outside the tinted glass, but she wondered how he would feel about the Doctor’s rather cavalier attitude toward his vehicle.  
  
Rose shrugged. “I don’t know. What does one do in Coventry?”  
  
The Doctor pushed off the car and squinted into the distance. “There’s St. Michael’s, what do you think? Visit some ruins? Or the Herbert – that’s a museum, up for a bit of learning?”  
  
At the thought of walking around anywehre – ruins or a museum – her stomach growled. It had been a rushed affair to get to the station and she’d gone without breakfast.  
  
“I think I’d like to learn the location of the nearest chip shop,” she said and the Doctor beamed at her in response.  
  
He opened the car door and ducked inside after her. “We’d like some chips, please, Wilf!”  
  
Wilf rolled the partition down and grinned conspiratorily. “You know my granddaughter won’t be happy about that, Doctor.” But he put the car in drive and left the parking lot anyway.  
  
“Granddaughter?” Rose asked. “Who’s his granddaughter?”  
  
The Doctor picked up Rose’s hand from where it rested on the seat between them, carefully inspecting her fingers. “Hm? Oh, Donna, of course. Wilf’s been a driver for me as long as I’ve been touring. He used to drive my bus, actually, when we had no one else to do it. The label insists on a professional driver now, for insurance or something, Donna knows the story. But Wilf’s always our man about town, if you will.”  
  
Rose caught about every third word, focused as she was on the way the Doctor stroked at the skin of her fingers, calloused from one too many nights up with her guitar.  
  
A conspicuous silence settled over the limo and Rose looked up at his expectant face, only to realize he’d said something else or asked her a question and she’d missed it.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“These calluses. You play a lot, but you don’t play on-stage, and you don’t play in the studio, which means you play by yourself, I said.”  
  
She nodded; he was still doing that thing, fingertips stroking, and tingles were traveling up her arm in waves, and her brain was about to short out.  
  
“I’d like to practice with you, every day, if we can manage. The more comfortable we get, the better our rapport onstage.”  
  
The shorting-out in her brain happened. She snatched her hand away, taking a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. “Is this all part of the routine? The initiation for the Doctor’s new ‘Companion’? Luring me into your tour bus for the night, introducing me to all your friends, holding my hand like … like that?”  
  
His face was entirely devoid of expression for a moment, and it made her stomach twist sideways — he wasn’t the jovial bloke whose bed she’d crashed in last night, and who had shared jokes with her all morning — she was looking at a Doctor mask, the face she’d seen him give in television interviews when he didn’t like the line of questioning the interviewer was taking.  
  
“You think I’m manipulating you,” he said, his left eye twitching a bit.  
  
“No, no, I didn’t say that” —  _oh god, had she, had she actually said that?_  — “This is all such a whirlwind, and I’m trying to keep my feet on the ground, y’know? It’s hard when … you’re the Doctor, and your life on tour is very different than my usual kind of tour, and …” She trails off, because she was going to say something about how her mum isn’t here, and reminding him of Jackie is the last thing she needs to do.  
  
“You want to know about the other women?” he asks, and he isn’t angry or dismissive, he’s just kind of stoic.  
  
 _Did she?_  Rose thought about it, dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to put her thoughts in order. When he put the question that way, it seemed so shallow.  _No, she didn’t want to know about them._    
  
“I just want to know if this is how it is for … all the people who come on tour with you. I guess.”  
  
He turned his entire torso toward her, seatbelt stretching across the plane of his chest.  
  
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve toured with a lot of people, all over the world. Some were for business reasons, some were for personal reasons, but they were all brilliant, in their own way. You probably think so, too. Here, let me see your phone.”  
  
Confused by the non sequitur, she did as he asked, rummaging around in her purse until she found it and handed it over.  
  
“Ah, knew you’d have one of these smart phones, with the music player. Look, see here” - he pointed at the screen - “Sarah Jane and the Adventures. She toured with me around the Velvet and Scarf albums. She comes back for one-off shows every now and again, charity things and the like, but she’s got her own life. They all do.”  
  
He continued thumbing through her music. “Oh! Ace in Your Face! This album’s dead clever, isn’t it? The things she can do with sound effects – those explosions on loop? Forget it. If she comes around at any of the stops, you don’t pay attention to any nicknames she may or may not have for me, yeah?”  
  
The car ride continued like that as they arrived at the restaurant – the Doctor gushing when he found a musician he’d worked with on Rose’s phone, and Rose carefully watching his face for signs of anything more than, well, the fond memories of friendship.  
  
Wilf opted to stay in the car and by the time they’d made their way to the counter, she’d only seen the flash of something she couldn’t pinpoint a couple of times. Once, with Jamie McCrimmon, and once with Romana Travels in Time.  
  
“Sorted then?” The Doctor asked, toying with the order number sign as they made their way to a table. “I can’t say how it is for all the people who come on tour with me, because it’s always different. This, what I’m doing with you, it’s different, too. And nothing I’ve ever done before, regardless of what the press would have you believe.”  
  
Rose took a long drink of her soda, the bubbles popping on her tongue felt like they’d made their way to her blood. What was he implying? That he didn’t hold hands? Or that he didn’t duet with people every night, practicing with them every day?  
  
Or something else entirely? The thing, maybe, that she was trying not to acknowledge might be happening.  
  
Before she could get too far down the rabbit hole, a waiter stopped by with their chips and the Doctor’s face indicated the matter had gone as far as he felt comfortable with it going.  
  
He tucked into his basket of food with a vengeance. Rose used her plastic fork to poke at a chip, picked it up, nibbled on the end, and thought about how all morning she’d been acting like a teenager with a crush, with her giggling and her inappropriate questions and her wild ideas about exactly what was going on in the Doctor’s head. And how all of that was going to stop  _right now._  
  
She was young — younger than the Doctor. But she was a professional singer, here to learn. So she’d sit down for each and every rehearsal and jam session the Doctor wanted. She’s crash on his couch, if it meant understanding his genius. This man was universally acknowledged as a rock god, and well … if the way he cradled his guitar in his hands, slung low over his hips, happened to be dead sexy; or if he happened to look particularly appetizing in those pinstriped trousers; or if he happened to hold her hand again this afternoon … none of it was here nor there.  
  
“So the cathedral, St. Michael’s, that sounds interesting,” she said, because she’d made things awkward, and she wanted them to be easy again.  
  
He perked up at that. “Y’know, I’ve been to Coventry at least a dozen times and could tell you the entire history of that cathedral, but I’ve never visited it. It was built in the 1300s, amazing bit of architecture …”  
  
And just like that, the Doctor started rattling off the cathedral’s history. Rose had never been terribly interested in architecture or anything else like that, really, but the way he talked made it sound fascinating.  
  
So after chips, when they went to the cathedral and stood in the quiet solemnity of the nave, it wasn’t just an old building made of stones. It was living history, architecture and craftstmanship and artistry, and whether any kind of God inhabited this space or not, it was holy because of the thousands of people who had worked to build it over the centuries, because of their lives and their connection to this place.  
  
She must’ve had a strange look on her face, because when she tore her attention away from their surroundings she found the Doctor staring at her, almost the same way she was staring at the cathedral. He smiled and took her hand, fingers threading with hers, and she grinned right back at him.  
  
They lost track of things exploring and Rose was embarrassed to have made Wilf trek all the way out from the car to find them. Thanks to him, they’d made it back for sound check right at 5.  
  
The Doctor disappeared at the start of it and Rose didn’t see him again for hours – when he was standing offstage during her set, beaming at her like she made the Earth spin.  
  
She forced herself to keep correct time, it would be ridiculous to rush off the stage just to see him for a bit before his own set started. Besides, she’d see him for their duet later. And she was a professional, damn it.  
  
When she’d finished her last song and exited the stage, the Doctor wasn’t around, but Donna was.  
  
“He left something for you, in your dressing room,” Donna told her.  
  
It was a hoodie, a note in what Rose guessed was the Doctor’s handwriting on top:  
  
 _Baby steps. You could keep the dress on with this._  
  
On the next line, he’d written,  _If you want._  
  
She did, she did want, and she zipped the pink sweatshirt up around herself, pleased with the weird way it sort of matched her dress. He must have gotten it during sound check.  
  
Grabbing her guitar and practically skipping back to the stage, Rose waited as the Doctor performed some of her favorite songs, a mix from of all of his albums.  
  
And then suddenly he was calling her out, tugging at the sleeve of her hoodie with a grin as she took her place next to him.  
  
He made a gesture like a phone to his ear and winked at her, before launching into one of the most played songs in her favorite playlist. It sounded different on just a guitar, but Rose recognized it immediately, the Postal Service.  
  
 _I am thinking it’s a sign –_  
  
And Rose was gone. When she came back to herself minutes later, the Doctor was sweating and smiling, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as he escorted her off the stage.  
  
He held a finger down over her ear, blocking out the noise of the crowd before raising his voice, “The hotel has a pool! Best way to cool down after a gig!”  
  
Then he was gone, dashing back out to center stage for the first encore.  
  
She pried herself away just as he was finally finishing, and she grimaced as the Doctor’s drummer – Adam Mitchell, was it? – chased after her, “Rose! Rose!”  
  
“Hey, I know you. You’re Adam, right?” she said, flashing him her patented smile.   
  
He looked pleased. “Yeah! I’ve been wanting to say, you’re really spectacular. It takes someone special to keep up with the Doctor, but look at you — you haven’t missed a beat.” He paused, surprise flashing across his face, along with a sheepish smile. “I should know, I suppose. God, that was corny. Did that just happen?” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Let me just state for the record, this was  _not_ how I was imagining this conversation might go.”  
  
Rose laughed, reaching out to pat his forearm. “I think it’s going perfectly, Adam. And thanks — keeping up has been a challenge, I won’t pretend it hasn’t.”  
  
They were both sweltering from the summer evening and the stage lights, sweating in their costumes. All Rose could think about was the swimming pool and the Doctor and making those two things happen as soon as possible.   
  
“I really need to …” She made a gesture, pointing vaguely toward her dressing room.   
  
“I’ll walk you,” Adam said quickly. Rose glanced behind him, at the empty stage, but there was no sign of the Doctor, only a hive of stage hands disassembling equipment. Adam fell into step beside her. “I’m trying really hard not to sound like a ridiculous fanboy, but I grew up at the Powell Estate, too.”  
  
She blinked at him, squinted a little, studying his profile in the harsh glare of the arena corridors, trying to place it, to glean any bit of familiarity. His short, rounded nose, the dark hair and eyes, none of it triggered any memories. “Really?”   
  
“Yeah, I think I left a few years before you did. Never finished school, went right into the music scene.”  
  
“How’d you end up working with the Doctor?”  
  
“Oh, I was in this band — called ourselves Van Statten’s Bunker, we were trying for a new wave garage sound, we were terrible really. But the Doctor heard us in a club, and I got a phone call from Donna the next day, and here I am.”  
  
They came to a stop outside of Rose’s dressing room door. “I don’t know about the rest of your band-mates, but you’ve found your league here, Adam. You’re not so bad at keeping up with the Doctor, yourself.”   
  
He grinned and jammed his hands into his jean pockets, his cheeks turning pink, his feet shuffling. “Thanks, Rose. Coming from you, that really means — I mean, I appreciate it. So has anyone told you about the pool? We always have a little party of sorts, first night at a hotel on the road. You ought to come. Everybody’s going to be there.”  
  
Rose carefully held her face in check, a skill honed over hundreds of uncomfortable interviews. She hadn’t had time to process just what the Doctor meant with his pool invitation, but she was sure she wasn’t expecting a party.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “The Doctor told me.”  
  
Adam, apparently without experience in keeping his own face neutral, turned the corners of his mouth down.  
  
“Right, right, yeah, of course he did.” He shuffled his feet. “Well, see you there, I guess.”  
  
And then he was gone.  
  
Rose changed quickly, stopping off at her bus for a few overnight items, including her swim suit and a thin robe for a cover up. She wasn’t sure how tight security was at the hotel, but if any paparazzi managed to sneak in, she wanted to limit the number of photos of her in her bikini. She didn’t need any grief from her mum.  
  
She flagged down one of the cars idling in the back lot. She didn’t see Wilf’s, so the Doctor must have gone on ahead.  
  
Donna had already checked them in and as soon as Rose’s car was pulling into the valet, an attendant rushed out to greet her with her key and the location of her room. She followed his directions and made her way to the correct floor.  
  
There was a message from Donna, too, blinking on the room phone, with instructions to charge food and anything else Rose needed back to the room, rather than try and pay for it and deal with any expense reports.  
  
Rose was grateful, paperwork was not her strong suit, and she didn’t need her mum weighing in on the receipts and why she’d felt the need to order two drinks and a basket of chips at midnight.  
  
When she’d finished the snack, eyes glued to the clock the entire time, she changed into her suit and the robe and made her way outside to the pool.  
  
Her eyes were scanning the crowd, the noise of a party in full effect surrounding her. She’d just spotted Martha Jones sitting on the diving board and was going to go say hello when Donna swam up to the edge of the pool.  
  
“Resort like this,” Donna said. “There’s bound to be another pool, an indoor one for when it gets cold –”  
  
Whatever she was going to say next was cut off as Jack Harkness swam up behind her, dunking her under the water.  
  
When she finally surfaced again, sputtering and smacking Jack over the head repeatedly, she finished her thought: “And I’m about to go track down that indoor pool, because if I don’t get some peace I’m going to murder you, you great dunce!”  
  
“Donna, you’re the most important woman in all of creation,” Jack crooned in a sing-song voice, fending off her blows and still managing to catch her around the waist.   
  
“Don’t start with me, Harkness, I’ve killed before and I’ll kill again!” But she was smiling, and her arms settled around his shoulders.  
  
Jack looked up at Rose, blue eyes glittering mischievously. “C’mon in, Rose! Water’s fine!”   
  
At that moment, Rose’s own guitarist, Jake, barreled into her, shouting “Cannonball!” They both went into the water together, head over heels, and everything was chlorine and she was choking and when she came up to the surface, she did a fairly good imitation of Donna, smacking Jake on the head and yelling insults at him. He was, as usual, incorrigible — he grinned, called her a few names in return, and dove under, disappearing to the other side of the pool.  
  
“He’s not bad,” Jack said to Rose, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
“I’m sure he’ll be flattered to know you think so,” Rose retorted. “He’s always had an eye for American beefcake.”  
  
Jack’s grin widened and he stared across the pool at Jake. “Really?”  
  
“Focus,” Donna reminded him, pointing a finger at her own face. “Most important woman, remember?”  
  
“Oh yes, that’s where we were,” Jack replied, pulling her away with a jaunty wave toward Rose.   
  
Rose heaved herself out of the pool, soaked and dripping, hair stringing down her shoulders and robe completely transparent from the water. So much for keeping the paparazzi from getting those bikini shots. With a sigh she tossed the wet robe onto a lounge chair and there he was, sidling up beside her with a pair of drinks in his hands.   
  
“Here, you look like you need one of these. Who needs enemies when you’ve got friends like that, huh?”  
  
Rose took the drink Adam held out to her. “Yeah, exactly.” She took a sip — whatever it was, it was strong enough to make the back of her throat close up, and she went into a coughing fit, bending over and covering her mouth with her hand. When she recovered, she realized she’d grabbed Adam’s arm to keep from keeling over. Her throat and stomach burning from the alcohol, she let go and managed to say, “Jake likes to pretend he’s my big brother. I’ve known him forever – we were mates when we were kids, him and me and Mickey, like the Three Musketeers.”  
  
Adam nodded in understanding, “That’s what I like about being in a band, the camaraderie of it. Be a shame if the Doctor does decide to make this his farewell tour. I suppose I could always just find another band to drum in. Doesn’t hurt have to his name on your CV.”  
  
Rose’s eyes widened, hand tightening on her glass – was there something she’d missed?  
  
“Farewell tour?” There, nice and even, well done.  
  
“Oh.” Adam’s face indicated he realized he had just spoken wildly out of turn, but he continued anyway. “Well, um, yeah, I mean, he was talking about it getting old – the business. He didn’t feel it like he used to. Might stop, set up somewhere in a house, he’s got loads of money, he could do whatever he wanted.”  
  
The alcohol in Rose’s system was making her warm and the idea that the Doctor, the Doctor, was going to say “farewell” was making it a thousand times worse.  
  
Was she some final charity case? Help launch Rose Tyler to the next level and then disappear forever?  
  
The noise of the party, the splashes and hollering, the radio replaying their interview from this morning, felt like too much. She pulled a towel around herself, stuffing her feet into the sandals, now soaked, that she’d brought along.   
  
At the turn of the first hallway, there was a sign for another pool, and Rose followed it without thinking. Maybe she could swim some laps, since she was already in her suit and wet, bursting with angry energy.  
  
The noise of the door opening to the pool area echoed loudly in the dim space and Rose was grateful for the relative privacy of it. She was squinting at the water, trying to figure out which end was the deep end, when she heard the Doctor’s voice.  
  
“Rose Tyler.” He grinned at her across the water, taking in her wet hair. “See you found the outdoor pool, then.”  
  
She felt the anger rise, everything was such a laugh to him, but this was her career and this was her – her life, and she needed all the information available, not just whatever breadcrumbs she could find lying around.  
  
“Yeah, it’s a party. You should go, gotta soak it up while you can, right?” Her voice sounded hard in the quiet room.  
  
“What?” His own voice was even, and the water reflecting on his face obscured any other clues.  
  
The room was relatively dark — it was late enough, both pools were technically supposed to be closed to guests, but Donna had no doubt made special arrangements. The overhead lights must’ve been on some sort of auto-timer. At least the pool light was on.  
  
“Swan songs, Doctor. I was just thinking about swan songs,” Rose said. With that, she dove into the water. She’d never been much of a swimmer — gymnastics were more her thing — but the trainer the record label had hired had forced her to do laps enough that she made it to the opposite end of the pool before she had to surface.  
  
When her head popped up, she found the Doctor had come to sit at the edge of the pool in front of her, cross-legged, his elbow on his knee and his fist resting against his cheek. Since they’d first met a few days ago, he hadn’t worn anything besides his pinstripes, and the sight of him in swim shorts threw her off more than she would’ve expected. He was skinny, but not scrawny at all; his lines were filled out nicely. His shoulders and arms were freckled, his chest covered in hair, she could even see an appendix scar on his abdomen. In the light reflected from the pool, his brown eyes looked older than usual, like the soul of an ancient being was staring through them.  
  
“Is this a riddle, Rose?” he asked, cocking one eyebrow at her. “I enjoy a good riddle.”  
  
He was too close. The alcohol was warm in her veins, there was too much skin, she was getting distracted, and so she backed away from him and the edge of the pool, treading water.  
  
“You’re in here by yourself, although you’ve obviously been to the party. You want some peace and quiet. I’d say you’re just tired from the day, but if that was the case you’d be in your hotel room. Your tone of voice says you’re unhappy. So what are you upset about?”  
  
“Adam said —”  
  
“Adam?” the Doctor interrupted, leaning back and scrubbing a hand through his already wild hair. He wrinkled his nose. “Worked up the nerve to talk to you, did he?”  
  
“Yeah, he seems like a nice bloke.”  
  
Without warning, the Doctor moved forward and hopped into the pool — well, half-fell, actually, although he seemed to do it on purpose. He surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of water like a fountain, and came to tread water alongside her, just beyond arm’s distance. “Adam’s a decent kid.” The look on his face belied his words, and what he said next had a distinct edge of anger to it: “And what exactly did he say to upset you?”  
  
Rose didn’t let herself think for long about whether that tone implied jealousy or just that he was upset Adam might have been telling secrets.  
  
She pushed the thought down with a forceful kick of her feet under the water. “Oh, you know, gave me a drink, put my hand on his arm, the words ‘farewell tour’ were thrown around.”  
  
The Doctor’s face flashed with something quiet and severe. “Adam should learn to keep his mouth shut. Wish I could click my fingers and do it for him.”  
  
Rose felt for the bottom of the pool, propelling herself away from the Doctor when she found it.  
  
“So, it’s true, then? This is it? You’ll never ever play music professionally again?”  
  
He followed her across the pool and she tried to be mindful not to back herself into a corner.  
  
“Never ever say ‘never ever,’ Rose.”  
  
She hit out at the water with her fist, creating a splash. “Why are you always so cryptic? Just give me a straight answer!”  
  
The water was shallow enough now that the Doctor could stand and he walked slowly through it, something like fury in his movements.  
  
“Oh, I’m always cryptic, am I? And you’ve had such a long stretch of time to form an assumption like that. You don’t know what it does to you, living this life for as long as I have. The things I’ve seen, and done. It stays with you.”  
  
Terrific, the high and mighty approach, little Rose Tyler could hardly hope to understand the tribulations of the Doctor, God of Rock.  
  
“I want to stay with you, but not if it could be all over tomorrow. I’m not going to start something – start creating music – if there’s already an expiration date.”  
  
The Doctor made his way over to the steps, sinking down against them. “We’re only on the second stop, Rose. The tour will hardly be over tomorrow.”  
  
She had an urge to stomp her foot, but the movement was slowed by the water. “You know what I mean! I thought this could be a new direction for my li– my career, but if it’s just some one-off and then back to the clubs with you, Rose Tyler, I’ll have to say ta, but I’ll pass.”  
  
His shoulders slumped. “You want to go home?”  
  
Rose grit her teeth before answering. “No!” she roared. “I want to stay here! But I want it to mean something!”  
  
For some reason, the angrier she got, the more morose the Doctor became. “Mean something? For your career? Rose Tyler, what do you think all of this is about? I saw how promising you were, how much you had to offer. What a legacy you’d be. I made you my opening act on what’s going to be my farewell tour, I gave you an extended duet in the middle of my set — you’ve got nearly as much stage time as me. Should we talk about billing, how big your name is on the poster? Do you need to call your mum, have her negotiate for more money?”  
  
During his speech, Rose had been steadily making her way closer, and as soon as she was within reach, she slapped him. The crack of her palm against his face ricocheted around the stark surfaces of the pool room, loud as a gunshot. He reared back and put a hand to his cheek, climbing up the steps to the edge of the pool, dripping water everywhere.  
  
He was, apparently, too shocked for speech.  
  
Rose’s own cheeks were numb and stinging, as though she was the one who’d been slapped. She was reeling, and any filter she’d had between her thoughts and her mouth was gone.  
  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “I’m not talking about my career or your legacy. I’m talking about you — forty-eight hours in, and I can see how much you love this. It’s your lifeblood. It’s who you are. Up on stage, with your guitar and your voice — the Doctor in his purest form. Saving the world with your words and the way you make people feel, even when they don’t think they want to. And you’re going to walk away from all that?”  
  
The Doctor lowered his hand, revealing his bright crimson cheek, the outline of Rose’s fingers clearly visible. Brow puckered, face grim, he got to his feet, staring down at her in the water.  
  
“I’m tired, Rose. Goodnight.”  
  
He wasn’t talking about needing a good sleep, Rose figured that out easily enough. He was already leaving, long legs carrying him out of the room with remarkable speed, and Rose slogged out of the pool after him. “Doctor! Wait! I’m sorry, I just —”  
  
“You’re what?” Whipping around so fast he sprayed her with a shower of water droplets, he glowered at her. She skidded to a stop in front of him, shivering and covered in goosebumps, and none of it was from the cold air.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she repeated softly, lifting her hand toward his face, but he narrowed his eyes and leaned back. “I was out of line. I shouldn’t have …”  _slapped you,_  she wanted to finish, but she couldn’t make herself say it, because the gravity of what she’d done was just dawning on her.  
  
“It’s your decision,” she finished lamely. “I’ll just have to get what I can and greet the next adventure alone.”  
  
The Doctor sighed and glanced at the door, apparently confirming his escape route was still available should he need it.  
  
“That’s just it, Rose. It stopped being an adventure for me. A long time ago, if I’m honest. Fights with the label, juggling the press, watching my music get chopped up into little radio friendly pieces – none of that is what I signed on for.”  
  
He paused and Rose held her breath, wanting him to continue more than she wanted to respond.  
  
“I got into music to get away, to escape the stuffy, old place I grew up in – and to help people, to try and speak to them the way other music spoke to me. But I’ve been doing it for so long, I’d forgotten all that. I hadn’t even thought about it in a long time, until –”  
  
Rose felt a flush along the back of her neck, the high ceilings of the pool area amplifying his sudden silence.  
  
“Until what?”  
  
He didn’t speak until she met his eyes. “Until Donna showed me that tape of you performing. There’s something about you, Rose Tyler. It makes me want to remember who I was.”  
  
She wanted to hug him, or at least take his hand, but moving her arms seemed risky in light of the slap she’d given him.  
  
Slowly, slow enough that he could back away at any time, she rose up on her toes and leaned in toward him. She pressed a light kiss to his injured cheek, both an apology and a thank you.  
  
When she dropped back down, she wasn’t expecting the look on his face. A wide grin, yes, or a wince at the pain that had to still be lingering where she’d struck him, but not this.  
  
He was looking at her with such wonder, as if he’d never seen anything like her before.  
  
She bounced on her toes, feeling anxious under the weight of his eyes, when suddenly they dropped lower, to her chest, to where she was just now realizing she had been – jiggling.  
  
He looked up again, a hand rising to press over his cheek, and then he was all movement, closing the distance between them in a flash.  
  
His mouth met hers, frantic and strong, and then he was backing her up, hands clutching at the skin of her hips, as he guided her toward the lifeguard stand.  
  
Her back met the cold metal of the base, and she arched into him to get away from it, an intimate movement heightened by their lack of clothing. She pulled back, readjusting before clutching at his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers again.  
  
It was mad and wonderful and confusing, they’d only known each other for two days, but she’d wanted it like they’d been together for years. The thought personified as they pulled apart and reconnected, mouths like magnets, before he finally slipped his tongue past her lips.  
  
Her arch this time was voluntary, his tongue warm and slick as it battled with her own. She unwound her hands from his hair to slide down his neck before moving to clutch at his shoulders.  
  
His own hands skated from her hips around to the top of her bum and she made a noise like surprise and acceptance rolled together. It sounded needy though, she knew, and he seemed to hear it, too, wrenching his mouth from hers and stumbling backward.  
  
Her eyes went wide at the look of him, the wet, messy hair, the red of his cheeks, both sides even in color now, and the film of sheer panic as he avoided her gaze.  
  
It was a look that said he’d rather not talk about it, maybe ever.  
  
Still feeling guilty for hauling off and hitting him – and more than a bit ruffled by this newest development – she took a deep breath and gave him an out.  
  
“I think Jake said something about beer pong. Seems like a sport you’d be good at – what do you think?”  
  
He scrubbed a hand over his face, coming up with a smile when he pulled it away.  
  
“Sounds brilliant.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

As Rose suspected might happen, the Doctor didn’t kiss her again, and he certainly didn’t ever mention the incident aloud.

Neither did she.

It wasn’t as though it had never happened — simply as though they’d tucked it away beneath layers of hugs and hand-holding and something-more-than-friendship. Regardless, the incident had opened a door between them; they’d both put their cards on the table, admitted how much they needed each other, and after that they were the Doctor and Rose, inexorable and inextricable.

Their connection was, to put it mildly, noticed. The gossip rags labeled Rose as the Doctor’s new “Companion” so fast, Jackie called her up two days later shrieking that she shouldn’t let her ovaries do her thinking because she had an image to maintain, and “are you using protection, because lord only knows how many diseases that man’s carrying”–“Muuuum, it isn’t like that, really!”

Their chemistry on-stage was undeniable, and at each stop thousands of camera-phones and music columnists took note as they harmonized during their duets. If Rose had the self-control to pretend she was singing to anyone but the Doctor when she belted out lyrics about love and completion, she wasn’t inclined to exercise it.

He didn’t seem to be, either.

But neither of them said anything of the sort outside of these moments onstage, eyes locked and guitars between them.

When Donna pulled Rose aside one day, two months after the incident at the pool, and asked, “Are you and he…?” Rose could only stare back at her and shrug a little.

When they weren’t on-stage, they dove right into the local culture. Each day was a different adventure (or misadventure), sometimes with Donna or Martha or Wilf or any number of the people that Rose had come to feel were her extended family, but always the Doctor and Rose together.

Once, the Doctor and Rose and Martha got tangled up at a hospital in Prague that was put on lockdown, and spent an entire day trying to get out in time for that night’s performance.

Another day, with Donna, they found themselves in the thick of a local labor uprising, and without them the workers in the main factory of Budesti, Moldovia would still be in virtual slavery.

The one time Adam came with them — a day full of forced smiles from the Doctor and much more touching than usual (which was saying something, really) — Adam managed to get himself tangled up in a local cult and nearly brainwashed. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t make it to that evening’s performance, and he was too embarrassed to talk to Rose for weeks afterward.

Six months on tour didn’t seem like nearly enough; Rose needed a lifetime of this, running from one place to another, always with her fingers intertwined with the Doctor’s.

The show tonight had been their next-to-last; a one-off thing for charity in Cardiff was now the only thing standing between Rose and her normal life.

The Doctor hadn’t made any formal statements to the media on this being his farewell tour and he hadn’t confirmed it to anyone either.

There had been a hen night after a gig somewhere in America weeks ago, for one of the Doctor’s back up singers, a lovely woman named Amy that Rose really should get to know better.

More than a few martinis in, Donna had confessed she didn’t actually know if this was the last tour and didn’t Rose know? If the Doctor was going to tell anyone, it would be Rose, she’d said.

A quick poll of the room, seemingly a group made up of the most important women in the Doctor’s life, proved it – no one knew a damn thing.

And so tonight, climbing into the Doctor’s bus to make the drive to Cardiff by the next morning, Rose felt more than a little anxious.

“What’s all this about then?” The Doctor raised an eyebrow at the way she was fiddling with her shirt, running a finger back and forth over its stripes.

Rose looked up, startled. “Huh?”

He laughed and sat down on the small bench next to her, their legs brushing together. “You’re rubbing at that shirt like it’s going to grant you three wishes.”

She forced herself to stop fiddling, but didn’t speak.

“Well, let’s hear them, Rose Tyler, what would you ask of your magic shirt?”

Was this a trick? It didn’t feel like a trick, it just felt like one of the Doctor’s crazy questions, asked of anyone and anything (the time he’d asked a dog for directions in Sao Paulo was a personal favorite), but she still felt like answering honestly would be a minefield.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Health and happiness for my family and friends, more money than the Queen.”

He made a face when she mentioned money, as if the thought of it hardly ever crossed his mind – and the frequency with which she paid for their chips seemed to indicate it didn’t.

“Bor-ing, and that’s only two, what would the third be? Make it something just for Rose, something you want, not standard genie fare.”

She smiled and knocked her knee into his, but didn’t pull it back, bringing more of their legs into contact. “Sure you don’t want to make it for me? Seems like my initial attempts fell short of your high wishing standards.”

“No, no, no, no, you go ahead.” And he plucked her hand from her lap, running his fingers over the calluses that had only grown deeper as she played on stage every night.

Well, if they were prancing right into a world of imagination and fairy tale, Rose wanted the genie to take her back to the first gig, so she could experience the last six months over again, because they’d been the happiest of her life. Or even better, she’d want a time machine, so she could go back again and again, reliving all of her time with the Doctor on a loop.

Although that would mean living in the status quo. And while the status quo was quite comfortable, shaking things up a bit wouldn’t be a bad idea.

At some point.

Maybe after a bit of a pep talk to herself about courage.

And a few drinks.

Anyway, she still had another twenty-four hours before the Cardiff show and the last hurrah Donna had planned for afterward at a local venue, just for the crew.

“I’d want this tour to keep going,” she said with a decisive nod.

The Doctor flashed a grin, his attention flickering to her mouth, and she realized she’d had her tongue pressed against her top teeth while she was lost in thought. His thumb rubbed circles into her palm and he reached around her with his other arm, leaning back against the side of the bench and settling her against his chest. It was an awkward arrangement — he was too tall, his legs hanging off the edge of the bench and his feet sprawled almost to the kitchette — but she didn’t protest.

“You’d get tired of the road after a while, Rose. Everybody does. They need something different, so they move on,” he said, the words rumbling through his chest and into her ear. She couldn’t see his face from this angle, only his neck and jaw, adam’s apple bobbing as he talked and stubble rough when she leaned forward to nuzzle it with her forehead.

It was a bit easier to concentrate like this, when she didn’t have to look at his face. Easier to say what she meant.

“This kind of life I want, Doctor. This is it.”

Well, almost what she meant.

His adam’s apple bobbed again and she could practically hear it, almost like a gulp, and oh god she’d said the wrong thing.

“What about you, Doctor? What three wishes would you make on my magic shirt?” she said, trying to distract him by walking her middle and index finger up his arm.

“I’d wish for a good night’s sleep,” he replied, clearing his throat loudly. Grabbing the back of the couch for leverage, he lifted them both back up to sit, then hopped to his feet. “You go on, get your beauty rest for tomorrow – there’s going to be a ton of press,” he said, gesturing to the little bunk in the back of the bus. “I’ve got a few things to check over before we arrive. End-of-the-line tour business.”

It was a familiar occurrence – a Doctor-shaped carrot dangling in front of her, only to be yanked away every time she ran for it. She made her way to the back of the bus and settled in. The way they’d been sitting, she could smell him on her, not just the sheets, and she didn’t fall asleep for an hour, the sounds of him plucking at his acoustic guitar playing her out.

The next morning was a blur of regular press, but the last stop of the day was the one she’d been looking forward to most – fan questions. An online form had been set up and questions rolled across a monitor in the sound booth, Donna standing by to point at which ones they weren’t to answer. If she cleared it, it was up to Rose or the Doctor to decide.

They started easy.

What’s in your pockets?

They both answered that one. Rose made a show of digging into the tight pockets of her jeans and pretending not to notice the way the Doctor’s gaze drifted to her bum.

She pulled out a tube of lip balm, a couple of coins, and a small peppermint. Seconds later, when a question scrolled by asking whether the peppermint was because she’d be kissing someone later, Donna didn’t clear it. Rose had been prepared anyway – she loved peppermint – but she didn’t miss the way the Doctor’s eyes skittered from the screen.

The contents of the Doctor’s pockets were more of a mixed bag – a bouncing ball, 16 American nickels, a still-wrapped fortune cookie (crushed into nearly dust), a small rubber mouse, and – a peppermint.

Donna hurried them along.

Rose, love your music, what’s on the chain you wear around your neck?

Shrugging, Donna nodded for it to go ahead and Rose was speaking before she thought better of it: “The ring is my dad’s wedding ring; the key is to the Doctor’s bus.”

His eyes widened and she realized what she’d said, and what it implied. “Because he steals my biscuits. McVitie’s are a hot commodity when you’re in the middle of Florida – guard them with your life.”

The questions zipped by for nearly an hour – where do you get your inspiration? Can you play any other instruments? What’s your favorite food? (“Chips,” in unison) – and it was just the last few minutes where Donna was distracted by the arrival of Jack Harkness that something they’d rather avoid slipped by.

Rose, what’s it like to snog the Doctor?

The media training she’d had with her label, and the practice from hundreds of terrible interviews, kicked in. Her mouth stayed in an easy smile, she didn’t let her eyes widen, but heat spread across the back of her neck and worked its way into her face and dammit she was beet red. She didn’t dare look at the Doctor; she wouldn’t be able to keep her composure, she’d lose it and die of embarrassment, right here on live radio.

A dozen answers to the question flashed through her mind in an instant: Amazing, that bottom lip is just as soft as you’d imagine, and when you suck it into your mouth he makes this sound, a growling groaning sort of sound, but let me tell you about the things he does with his tongue, dear listener, it’s nigh-on miraculous…

Rose laughed, and it didn’t sound too forced, did it? The guys at the sound board didn’t look suspicious, did they?

She opened her mouth, and words came out: “Look who just walked into the studio — the very man who can answer your question! It’s Hark the Shark!”

She hazarded a sideways glance at the Doctor; his cheeks were flushed, his gaze directed anywhere but toward her, and he was rubbing the back of his neck with a vengeance. He barked a laugh, too loud: “Oi! Nobody in this studio has anything to say on that subject, Jack least of all – I give you my word!”

Jack settled into the soundbooth like a hurricane, drowning out any awkwardness that might have been broadcast with his easy charm, and the inquisition was finally over.

On the way back to the arena they sat on opposite ends of the limo, with Donna and Jack and Amy in between. The Doctor had fished a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and he was fiddling with it, popping the top off and clicking it back on, flipping it absently with his fingers as he stared out the window at the streets of Cardiff.

Rose was still flustered, and if she had to talk too much she’d probably burst into tears because with every minute’s passing she could only think of the fact that she wouldn’t be here with him every day anymore, that the Doctor was going to go back to his same old life, probably touring alone; her mum was going to bundle her off to the next step in her career as soon as she arrived home; and the best thing that had ever happened to her was about to be over.

The limo was full of the others’ laughter and banter, and no one noticed how quiet the two of them were, or how they didn’t look at each other when everyone piled out of the limo and headed off to their own separate dressing rooms.

Sound check was still a few hours away yet, and she’d heard they filmed some of her favorite shows in Cardiff. She was looking forward to breaking into one of the lots with the Doctor, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

A glimpse into the making of that sitcom with the two private investigators in love would have to wait. (It was probably for the best, that set was bound to be filled with sexual tension and she had enough of that on her own, thanks.)

Instead she picked up her guitar, slipping into Ian Dury like her favorite jumper. She wasn’t in the mood for comfort though, she was in the mood for angst, and she strummed through some Bright Eyes. Lover she didn’t have to love indeed.

It was two hours later and she was just trying to decide between The Buzzcocks and The Clash (they both had their merits, but she was altogether more on the level with Pete Shelley over Joe Strummer, at this point) when Donna knocked on her open door.

“He’s being a prat,” Donna said by way of greeting.

“Oh, I’m aware.” And Rose filled the room with the sounds of ‘Ever Fallen in Love’ for a few moments before Donna stilled her hand on the guitar.

“You can call him on it, you know, he won’t break,” she said.

Rose sighed, “No, but he’ll sulk for hours, or leave the room, or change the subject, or light the bowl of jelly babies backstage on fire.”

Donna’s eyebrows raised. “I KNEW it was him! Spontaneous combustion because the tour rider wasn’t followed my arse.”

Rose laughed, “Oh, yeah, forgot I wasn’t supposed to mention that. What happens to all the orange ones he makes the venue remove?”

Donna started to answer and then narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been picking up bad habits. Distract, distract, you two. How does anything ever bloody get said?”

“It doesn’t, and now it’s the last stop, and your best mate will be lucky if I don’t slap him again before the night is out.” Rose felt some of the tension leave her body, it was nice to have someone to talk to about all this.

“You slapped him? And you’re still here?” Donna’s mouth stayed open, slack in amazement.

Rose shrugged and checked the clock. “Listen, I’ve got to go to sound check. If you go see him after this, please don’t tell him anything.”

Obviously Donna was not going to listen.

It was only ten minutes later that the Doctor was storming the stage as Rose called out instructions to the technical crew.

“What did you say to Donna?” he seethed under his breath, squinting as the lights came up.

“Everyone knows you’re a child, and it’s no surprise she figured out you were the one who set the jelly-babies on fire because you were bored,” Rose snapped at him, because really he was doing this here and now? She was just about in the mood to have it out in front of every last member of the sound crew — for all she cared they could pull out their bloody cameraphones and post it to the internet, the Doctor being a cowardly arse for all the world to see.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” The frown on his face shifted, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “You told her about the jelly-babies, too?”

Rose rounded on him, hands on her hips, and met his angry glare with one of her own. “What exactly do you think I told her? The gates open in ten minutes, we’re on in fifty, and I’m not in the mood to play twenty questions with you, Doctor.”

He glanced at the stage-hands hustling around them, at a few who were lingering a bit too close and checking the same wires for the fifth time, and shook his head. He was getting more agitated by the second, rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels, rubbing the back of his neck and shoving his fingers into his hair as though he wanted to rip it out.

“I can’t perform like this. I can’t focus, how am I supposed to concentrate when…” He stopped, a frantic gleam in his brown eyes, as though he wanted to pick something up and throw it. If there had been a guitar in proximity he might well have gone into a full-on stereotypical rock-star fit and smashed it. That would be a video worth posting. Rose might’ve even done it herself.

“This is all about you, isn’t it?” Rose hissed. “Always has been. Is that what Donna told you? That you’re being a selfish bastard?”

That brought him up short. The frantic gleam was still there, but his body grew completely still and he stared at her, his fingers twitching down by his hips and his face flashing through a range of emotions so fast Rose could hardly read them – hurt, frustration, sadness — all of it playing across his features within seconds.

“Break a leg, Rose,” he finally said, turning on the heel of his Chucks and strutting offstage, shoulders hunched as he jammed his hands into his pockets.

There was a split second where she thought about chasing after him and she curled her toes inside her shoes to stop the movement. She had her own performance to focus on. If he was going to be a shit, she could be, too.

With a wave to the crew, she exited the stage to the opposite side.

By the time she was back on it an hour later, her anger had cooled – this was the last performance she’d give by herself on this tour. It might be the last performance she gave atall on the tour, depending on how much the Doctor’s own emotions had settled.

She smoothed a hand down the fabric of her dress, green and smooth and shiny, but she actually liked this one – she felt like herself, sang her head off, and the audience noticed.

Walking off a stage to a roaring crowd was one of the best feelings in the world, and she practically skipped into the wings, nearly running headfirst into the Doctor.

He pulled her in between the two stage curtains, cutting them off from the crew, and muffling the noise of the crowd.

“Fantastic show, Rose.” He gave her a tentative smile.

She could push beyond this for now, she had to push beyond it.

“Thanks, it’s a great crowd tonight, they’re going to love you.”

The Doctor rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, the thing is, they already love you, and –”

He trailed off, moving to rummage a hand around inside his suit. He pulled it back out (how deep were his pockets exactly, it looked like he’d been up to his elbow) and thrust a piece of crumpled paper at her.

“What’s this?”

She looked down at it and saw the slanted letters of his handwriting – oh my god, they were song titles. A mix of their favorite covers, and more than a few of their original songs, songs no one had heard but them.

“It’s tonight’s set list,” he said it without a trace of panic, his voice strong and clear. “And after that, it’s my next album.” He shrugged. “If you want.”

Rose grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him down into a hug so tight his laugh turned into a wheeze in her ear.

She pulled back and caught his eye, trying to see if this meant what she thought it meant. But then Adam was sticking his head around the curtain.

“You guys coming? Rose, I heard you’re doing the whole set with us, that’s – that’s great. “

She raised her eyebrows at the Doctor, smirking at his apparent confidence that she’d agree.

He grinned back. “Oi! Come on, you two! We’ve got a show to do!”

Rose felt 40 feet tall walking out onto the stage, and she still hadn’t shrunk back down by time they’d played their last encore, Donna giving them an enthusiastic double thumbs up from the wings.

The audience was still chanting for another encore in the front of house, but behind the scenes the crew poured out the doors like sailors abandoning ship, everyone in a rush for the hired cars heading to the wrap party. Donna had organized everything at a local pub, rented out the entire place for the evening.

Martha grabbed Rose in the melee, pulling her along with a hail of congratulatory chatter. Rose clung to Martha’s arm, letting herself be led outside, still reeling from everything that had happened during her set onstage. She was more than a little grateful for a breath of fresh of air before she saw the Doctor again.

The Doctor had always sung with her like he meant it; he was a consummate professional when it came to his music, it was his job to act like he believed the words coming out of his mouth. But tonight —Rose shivered as she remembered the look on the Doctor’s face, the intense focus in his gaze, as he crooned the lyrics they’d written together. They might as well have been alone instead of onstage in front of tens of thousands of people.

“Are you all right?” Martha asked, snatching her hand as they settled together into the backseat of one of the hired cars. “You’re shaking like a leaf!”

“I’m fine,” Rose gasped, clutching Martha’s hand, grateful for the steadying influence. “Just excited. Relieved. Can’t believe it’s all over.”

Martha beamed at her — she was talking, leaning her head on Rose’s shoulder and hugging her like a sister. Rose hugged back, letting Martha chatter away.

In truth, Rose was shaking because during the last song of their set, the Doctor had actually taken his guitar off — like stripping away a layer of armor, while he belted out the lyrics of the first song they’d written together. He’d yanked off his tie, tossing it into the audience, and she almost forgot her part of the duet at that point because he’d strutted over to her side of the stage and put his arm around her. She’d shifted her guitar out of the way and they were dancing —dancing — in front of everyone, hips rolling together to the beat as a thousand camera flashes lit up the audience. His grin had been manic and unabashed and Rose had hardly been able to finish the song, she was so breathless.

By the time the car arrived at the pub, Rose managed to get her thoughts in check, and when they walked inside and she spotted the Doctor at the bar with a pint, chatting with Adam, she didn’t hesitate to join them.

Adam was apparently in the middle of a long story, something about elective surgery, it sounded like, but Rose didn’t care to catch up. She wedged herself onto the side of the Doctor opposite Adam, smiling as he shifted over to give her part of his stool before she could climb onto her own.

With the movement, her dress rode up higher on her thighs than would be decent for the public, but it was practically family here tonight. And the way the Doctor had stopped even trying to pretend he was listening to Adam, instead focusing on the skin of Rose’s legs, was thrilling.

He flagged the bartender down, ordering her a glass of the champagne that seemed to be everywhere. When it was delivered a few moments later, the Doctor took a long sip from the glass, before handing it over to Rose with a devastating look.

She finished the glass in three sips, eyes locked on his the entire time, the warmth from the drink hitting her blood immediately, rushing to fill every part of her.

Adam said loudly, “I’ll just be going then,” but Rose didn’t even look up. The Doctor shifted her bodily by the hips, pulling her to stand and pinning her between the bar and him, his legs on either side of her.

“Feeling bold tonight, Doctor?” She snaked her tongue out to the corner of her mouth, delighting as it had the intended reaction and the Doctor moved closer on the stool.

“Something like that,” he said, voice low and full of promise.

Promises she wanted him to keep, promises she had to ask after, even if the way his knees were pressing into her hips was incredibly distracting.

“Is this just end-of-the-road madness? It’s the last day of school, let’s throw caution to the wind?”

His head pulled back at that. “Is that what it feels like?”

Before she could answer, he spoke again, “Rose, how long are you going to stay with me?”

She answered without hesitation, “Forever.”

He smiled a much softer smile than she’d ever seen, fondness and joy and – love.

“You know...” his smile grew wider “...Donna’s been keeping people out of that back room since we got here. Rock stars only, she said.”

Rose ran her hands up his thighs, stopping just short of a point she couldn’t turn back from, teasing him with her words, “Rock stars? Oh, do you know any?”

He stood suddenly, grabbing her hands and hauling her toward the back room, whistles and claps echoing behind them.

While the Doctor closed the door, cheers still audible from the bar, Rose skittered to the other side of the private room, putting an ancient, pitted oak table between them. Because this was … exactly what it looked like from the cheap seats outside.

Except Rose needed it not to be that, no matter the forever she’d promised a few seconds ago.

Because the Doctor hadn’t promised anything, really.

He was glorious and familiar, sweaty from their performance just like she was, his hair damp. He shucked his pinstriped jacket, letting it fall to the floor as he stepped up to the opposite side of the table. He had on his incorrigible grin, the one she’d seen dozens of times when they were stuck in an impossible situation, except the expression in his eyes this time — he’d thrown whatever reservations he had to the wind, and he was exercising an incredible amount of self-restraint, not throwing himself across the expanse of oak and ripping off her already skimpy green dress right then and there.

“Rose,” he breathed, and it was like someone had thrown her into a hot spring, her entire body lit afire.

“Say it,” she demanded, secretly pleased at how calm she sounded. She refused to get lost in his gleaming brown eyes, or the smile that illuminated every single feature on his face. “I promised you forever. So say it.”

The corners of his mouth leveled out and he straightened from where he’d been leaning across the table. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Surely you know. I thought it’d be obvious. Tonight, I tried, with the set list and the performance, and when we —”

“Doctor, I just need…” she interrupted, and the vulnerability in his eyes took her breath away. He was expressing it in every way he knew how — with his career and his bravado in front of an audience, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to get hold of herself. He was still wearing his shirtsleeves, but he might as well have been naked in front of her. “I just … need to hear it, okay?”

He straightened to his full height, skinny and gorgeous and ridiculous as he was, his fingers grasping the fabric of his pinstriped pants in helpless panic. But he said the words anyway: “Rose Tyler, I love you.”

Rose laughed in delight — it was inappropriate, really, she should be serious, he’d bared his soul for her sake, because she’d asked — but she was crawling across the table, reaching for the back of his neck with one hand as she knocked a few half-empty glasses of bitter aside with the other.

“Say it again,” she gasped.

“Rose Tyler, I love you,” he replied, sweeping her into his arms, his body solid and his grip so firm she could hardly manage to get her next words out.

“Doctor, I love you, too,” she said, her lips already opening against his.

She felt his tongue snake out almost instantly and she pulled away, moving so she could get her feet out from under her. 

He staggered back, eyes hurt and hands clenched.

The sight of him so open and vulnerable gripped low in her stomach and she smiled at him. “Just getting my legs back – if you run, I’m chasing you.”

She watched the tension drop out of him, “No running, not from you. Not anymore.”

She smiled, licking her lips and looking him up and down. “Really? Not even if I do this?”

She pulled at a strap of her dress, sliding it down her shoulder and slipping her arm free.

“Absolutely not,” he said, his voice rough in a way that shot straight through her.

Rose nodded. “Good, good. And this?”

She slipped the other strap off the same way, moving her free arm up to keep the dress from tumbling to her waist.

“Oh, maybe for that.” But his eyes were focused on the top of her chest, the line where her skin met the smooth fabric.

She smiled at him, wide and happy and more than a little turned on. “And where would you be running to?”

He looked at her like she’d just dribbled on herself, but his eyes were sparkling. “To make sure the door was locked, of course.”

But he didn’t run there, instead he backed up slowly, hand groping behind him until he found the handle, clicking it locked with his thumb.

There was space, too much space, between them, and the room was still enveloped in heat. She could feel her heart under the arm across her chest, the pulse of it thumping wildly. She told him so and he grinned, pressing a hand to his own heart.

“Oh, I’m beating out a samba over here.”

She moved back on the table, her feet dangling a few inches above the ground. “Yeah? You gonna show me some of those moves?”

He made a noise like a growl and a hiss. “Rose Tyler, I’m going to show you all of them,” and he was hurtling across the room, a blur of blue and brown and Doctor.

Stopping between her legs, hands braced on the table on either side of her hips, he pulled up short with his mouth a few inches from her own.

“That’s it then? That’s your big move?” She leaned forward and nudged her nose against his.

He smiled, a sexy, silly thing that branched out in her veins like lightning. “You like it.”

She moved her mouth to his, her words ghosting between them: “I love it.”

And then his lips were on hers, hands framing her face and she couldn’t pull away this time, not that she wanted to. His tongue slid confidently into her mouth, stroking against her own and she let go of her dress to wind her arms around his neck and into his hair.

God, he had great hair.

Her dress stayed up only as long as his chest was pressed to hers and he figured it out the same time she did, smiling wickedly against her mouth as he arched his torso away from her. The dress fell to her waist and everything else toppled behind it.

It was a rushed series of moments – his shirt unbuttoned halfway before she moved to palm the front of his trousers, his hands under her bum as he lifted her enough to shimmy the bottom half of her dress up to meet the top, and the noises – the noises. Words and groans and yelps and he really didn’t shut his gob for anything, did he?

Everything shifting, sliding, moving, and there, and when it was done, the Doctor was leaning his forehead to hers, grins like boomerangs between them.

They wouldn’t find out for weeks to come, but somewhere on the other side of the door, Donna Noble was sending an e-mail, agreeing to another tour to support their upcoming album.


End file.
